


Stargate Atlantis, Whumptober 2020

by MaverickWerewolf



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen, John Sheppard Whump, May or may not have some relationships hinted at, Restraints, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, tied up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:28:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26821402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaverickWerewolf/pseuds/MaverickWerewolf
Summary: Whumptober prompt fills - mostly Sheppard undergoing lots... and lots... of suffering, but that may vary. Will be adding more tags as I go and, possibly, more characters show up.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Stargate Atlantis, Whumptober 2020

**Author's Note:**

> Trying this Whumptober thing! Starting with SGA.
> 
> No 1. LET’S HANG OUT SOMETIME  
> Waking Up Restrained | Shackled | Hanging
> 
> I decided to use all three prompts this time.

He awoke with a start. A violent jolt, one that made something over him rattle so loudly it pierced his head. Everything hurt, ranging from a dull ache at the back of his skull to a more generalized, deep-set pain of exhaustion everywhere else.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, John Sheppard wondered: how many head traumas had he been through in his life?

That wasn’t the most important question, though. Barely a few seconds later, his sluggish senses came back to him just enough to realize exactly what kind of a pickle he was in – flat, cold floor under his back. Shackles around his wrists, set tightly enough to bite into his skin. More shackles around his ankles, clamping down hard, but at least he still had his boots on. And a blindfold around his head, covering his eyes.

Gingerly, John tried to move. The various aches flared, and something above his head rattled. No, not above his head – above his arms, actually. Shifting, John tried to give his arms a tug. Weak as the effort turned out to be, it rewarded him with more of that loud rattling that felt like someone poking a knife in his ears.

Another chain. He tried to picture it: one around his wrists, over him – hanging from the ceiling, if he had to guess. So he was ready to be strung up. Great.

As for the rest of it, everything around him, he could only conjure up images of some dark, dank castle dungeon out of a fantasy flick. From the smell of mildew and the occasional, distant drips of water, it didn’t seem too far off the mark.

Okay. He had to get his bearings. Taking a deep breath, John tried to push away the pain pounding in his skull and shifted in the restraints again. _Nowhere you haven_ _’t been before_. Yeah, because he’d been tied up so many times in his life.

Usually it wasn’t chains quite this heavy-duty, though… and at least some of the last chains had been nice enough to come with leather cuffs that didn’t try taking chunks out of his wrists. But here he was, laying in the floor probably catching pneumonia and taking a mental tally of the best and worst bindings he’d been in during his stay in another galaxy. Alright, so what were his options—

 _Clunk_.

John went rigid, held his breath, and listened. Something moved nearby. A deep thud, a clang, and then the chain rattled again. Started moving. _Oh crap._

It lifted him by the wrists, dragging his arms straight up in the air. And for some stupid reason, John struggled. Human nature, probably, since he knew full well he couldn’t actually do anything. All that did was make the shackles on his wrists bite down harder, and he promptly calmed himself and went still again.

Slowly, it hauled him farther up, pulling his arms out taut above his head until it made his shoulders protest and let a deep ache settle heavy into them too. His hands got twisted up in the shackles, held at an awkward angle above his head, the metal cutting into his skin. Didn’t take long for him to feel hot blood start oozing from around the restraints. Then even more, trickling in eddies down his arms.

With his hands a lost cause, John tried moving his feet instead – which almost made him cry out. Even one jerk of his legs, tensing the muscles in his lower body, put that much more pressure on his wrists. And as for his feet, they went nowhere – another chain rattled and he could barely even lift his legs a few inches before some other restraint kept them from going further.

He was hanging there like those drying hides he saw in Athosian camps: pulled taut, bound one end and the other. At least his limbs weren’t splayed out, though. Silver lining – arguably.

Maybe if he broke his thumbs, used the blood to lubricate his hands, he could slip them free. At least there didn’t seem to be anything or anyone else moving around in here with him. Another silver lining. It was almost a pretty sunset by now, he lied to himself, as feeling steadily drained from his arms – except the sickly tickle of blood running down them to remind him they still existed – even as he began to try contorting one hand…

Then something moved.

Nearby, somewhere in the darkness, something creaked. A door swinging open. It hit the wall soon after, a heavy slam that rattled its hinges. Faintly, light spilled in from somewhere just off to his side – he could barely see it through the blindfold. Setting his jaw and trying to control his breathing against how much it all hurt, he listened carefully.

Breathing. Harsh, grating breathing from a very inhuman throat. Something shuffled toward him, something else in chains that rattled. Those labored breaths drew closer and he smelled a stench, something familiar, something he couldn’t ever quite fully get out of his mind…

The stench of a Wraith’s maw. He’d recognize it anywhere.

_Damn._

Instantly, hot and cold panic shot up his spine, made him go rigid and have the restraints hurt still worse. Against his better judgment, against any cool logic years of experience and a general – outward, anyway – attitude of calm had always afforded him, he squirmed again.

Frustration and no small amount of rage pushed the fear aside and had him struggle just enough to remind himself there was no way he could get out of this right now. Just one hard jerk of his chains to prove a point to himself: that he was screwed, and that wasn’t really his own fault. And to prove to whatever Wraith stared at him now that he didn’t want to go quietly like some—

Wait. Chains.

The Wraith was in chains too.

So they were both prisoners. A few quick flashes of Todd tumbled into the ugly pile of half-panicked thoughts that filled his head, and he tried to croak out a few words. Turned out his throat was so dry he could barely speak, and he had to swallow hard, almost choking on nothing as his throat clicked at him and he tried to find anything to… actually say.

“Rotten luck, huh?” he managed to grate out in a rough drawl, sounding like he had just finished gargling gravel. “What’re you in for?”

No response, just a harsh, rattling breath and a fresh waft of half-rotten stink from that… _mouth_.

No way this would work.

“That’s the way it’s gonna be?” John said, listening as the chains rattled again and the Wraith took a few more heavy, shuffling steps forward.

No response again. Without another word, John braced himself. Why the hell did he have to be helpless, left hanging here like a free meal, feeling pathetic? Even if he went down fighting, even if somebody was watching and making sport of it, he would rather have that over being completely unable to even _try_ saving his own ass—

He could almost feel it now, almost _see_ it – see the feeding hand as the Wraith raised it. Something like anticipation welled in his chest – terror of the sheer pain, bracing for it but also for the intoxicating rush he knew came with it. He knew it, he hated it, and he set his jaw against the inevitable scream because he already knew _nothing_ hurt like this—

The sharp rapport of gunfire split the room, split his ears, and split the Wraith. P90 fire, fully automatic. Someone unloaded right into the thing. A splatter of blood barely reached him. The Wraith let loose some wild sound between a cry and a roar just before a familiar buzzing _thwump_ heated the air next as Ronon’s gun discharged once, twice, three times.

Something fell down in front of him into a heavy, meaty heap, with the faint squeak of undoubtedly black leather: the Wraith. It had been so close, so close he almost wondered how they had managed to shoot it and not hit him.

With more difficulty than he would ever admit, John tried to collect himself. A few voices rang in his ears, approaching him, along with familiar labored breathing: Rodney. Not just the way he panted but the way he felt. Smelled. That sure did sound weird. Maybe it was leftover from that time John had turned into a bug…

“Oh my God, he’s _covered_ in blood,” Rodney declared, voice shaking.

“He’ll be fine,” Ronon said next, from somewhere a few feet away. Probably covering the room, making sure nothing came at them.

“The lever is here,” said Teyla from somewhere else in the room. “Support him when he is lowered, Rodney.”

“Suppor—? What, me? Yes, yes, okay,” Rodney answered. Under his breath, John heard him mutter, “Oh God there’s so much blood, this is disgusting…”

Then there were hands on him. Hands and arms. One set Rodney’s, one Teyla’s; he could tell. Gently, they lowered him to the floor, before he finally swallowed hard again.

“Anybody wanna get this off my face?” he said as wryly as he could manage. There wasn’t much humor in it.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, why didn’t I think about that?” Rodney blurted, pulling the blindfold off as John also felt Teyla’s gentle touch around his wrists, carefully unlocking the shackles there. Apparently, somewhere, they had managed to find some keys.

“We’ll get the bastard who did this,” Ronon offered rather generically but with genuine feeling from where he stood, watching them maybe a little too much instead of the doorways he was supposed to be covering. Coming from him, it meant a lot. John knew, like everybody else, he wasn’t exactly a words and feelings kind of guy.

“First,” Rodney said, “we’ve got to get him to the _infirmary_.”

For his part, John blinked and tried to get his eyes to focus. Dim as the light was, it was hard to see to begin with, even without a head wound, his heart still pounding in his ears, and general disorientation. But he made out Rodney crouched over him on one side, Ronon standing nearby with both hands still on his gun, and Teyla leaning over him now.

“Are you still with us, John?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Rodney scoffed and threw one bloodied hand in the air. “’Fine,’ of course he says he’s ‘fine.’ Perfectly fine, Lieutenant Colonel Blood Loss…”

As they finished unshackling him and slowly, one on each side, hauled him to his feet, John licked his lips finally took a deep breath that wasn’t borne of trying to steady his emotions and not be scared out of his mind.

And he used it to say quietly, hoarsely, “Thanks.”


End file.
